作品原文

王培静 《家书》

牵挂是一根线，思念是一张网。
这是二十年前的一个故事。那时我才十七岁，刚下学。跟援藏队去西西格里修公路。和我住同屋的有个老乡大叔叫马大山，背地里我们都喊他马大哈。西西格里一年四季里最不缺的是风沙，最少见的是绿色和女人。白天还好，大家垒石头、填土，忙着干活。到了夜里，听着蒙古包外呼呼的风声，偶尔传来几声瘆人的狼嗥。
那时通讯还不发达，就是发达了，电话也扯不到荒山野岭去。
所以家信就成了我们筑路工人盼望得到和寄托思念的唯一方式。虽然书信有时要在路上走两个月，但那薄薄的纸片传递的却是父子情、母子情、夫妇情、兄弟情。
马大叔不会写信，每每看见别人收到信后的喜悦表情，他总是躲到一边去吸烟。出来有多半年了，那几天看他心事重重的样子，我也不知他怎么了。这一段他对我特别的好，干活时尽量让我干轻点的，吃饭时好几次把菜拨给了我一些。
那一天晚上，他终于艰难地说出了心事。
“小不点，大叔求你点事。大叔没文化，大叔老早就买好了笔、纸和信封。大叔求你给家写封信，问问娃子上学怎么样，家里没事吧？”“咳，就这点事，你怎么不早说。我帮你写，现在就写，明天就寄走。想婶子了吧？”我知道老马为什么这段对我这么好了。
老马的信寄出后，他又还原成了原来的老马。干活从不惜力气，脸上也偶尔露出笑容。
过了一个月，又过了一个月。老马的信还没来，那天我主动提出，又帮老马写了封信。
过了些日子，又过了些日子。老马家里终于回信了。那天下午正干着活，文书到工地上分发了来信。拿到信，老马激动的把信封看了又看，用手摩擦着，随后小心的放进衣兜里。有人喊：“老马，给大家念念。”老马只是脸红了红，并没把信拿出来。
没过一会，我去厕所，老马也来了。在厕所外边，他喊我：“小不点，你给我念念。”我接过信封，看笔迹肯定是他上小学三年级的儿子写的。撕开后，我掏出一页纸，他把信封拿过去，又用手去掏。内文和信封不是一种笔迹。内文象一年级小学生的字体。我认真看完内容，说：“不念了吧。”他紧张的凑上来：“怎么了，怎么了，信上写的什么。快给我念念，大叔求你了。”
信上只歪歪扭扭写了几个字：
大山：
娃很好，我想和你睡觉。
娃他妈
我念完，老马还目不转睛地看着我。见我把信递给他，忙问：完了？我答：“完了，就这些。你媳妇会写信？这信封和内容不是一个人写的。”“她不会写信，她没上过学。”
后来那时少年不知愁滋味的我，把老马的信当笑话讲了，许多人见老马的面就开玩笑：我想和你睡觉。
没多久，我被爷爷病重的电报召回了家，往后再无缘见到老马。
再后来，我想老马的媳妇一定是一天或几天向儿子学一个字，一个字一个慢慢描下来的那封信。那是一个山里女人对在数千里之外自己男人的一份思念。
二十年后，让我在这儿对老马及老马大婶道一声：对不起了。

作品译文

Letters
Wang Peijing

Heart is an invisible thread that links us to our dear ones no matter where we are in the world.
This story took place over 20 years ago. At the time I was 17 years and had just graduated from high school. I joined a Tibet volunteers team and was working on a highway project in Xixigeli. One of my roommates was a middle-aged rustic folk called Big Mount Ma. Behind his back, though, everybody called him Big Monk Ma. Here in Xixigeli sandstorms rage on almost year round, and here in Xixigeli women and green are rarely seen. It wasn't that bad during the day while we were busy laying stones and filling in earth. It became hard on us, however, when we lay in bed at night listening to the wind buzzing outside the Mongolian tents and wolves howling heart-piercingly.
At that time communication technology was not as advanced. Even if it were, no telephone service could be established in such vast, wild desert.
Therefore, letters were the only way by which we could be linked with folks thousands of miles away. Although it would sometimes take more than two months for a letter to reach, that sheet of paper carried with it the feelings between father and son, mother and son, husband and wife, and between brothers.
Big Monk Ma was illiterate. Every time when he saw others' faces lit up with joy upon receiving letters, he would sit yards away and puff away on his pipe. About half a year later, Big Monk Ma had a rather thoughtful, worried look on his face for days. I wondered why. Moreover, he was especially kind to me. On the construction site he would always let me do light work and during mealtime he would generously give me a portion of his vegetables and meat.
Then, one evening, he told me what had been on his mind.
"Young man, could you do me a favor? I am illiterate, you know. I bought paper, pen, and envelope long time ago but don't know how. Could you write me a letter home? Just want to know how my kid is doing at school, how are things at home?"
"Certainly," I said. "Why didn't you ask me earlier? No big trouble at all. Okay, let me do it now, so that it'll catch the mail tomorrow. Homesick, wife-sick, right?" Now I knew why he had been so kind to me recently.
Once the letter was on its way, Big Monk Ma became his old self again, working tirelessly, a smile on his face occasionally.
A month passed. Another month passed. Still no letters came for Big Monk Ma. So I offered to write another letter for him.
Days passed. More days passed. And finally Big Monk Ma received a letter from home. That afternoon we were busy working when the administrative assistant came to the construction site to pass out the mail. Thrilled beyond himself, Big Monk Ma gazed at the letter long, caressed it with quivering fingers, and then folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. Someone called out: "Uncle Ma, what does your letter say? Can you read it aloud for us?" Big Monk Ma's face reddened, but he didn't take out the letter.
A short while later I went to the outhouse and Big Monk Ma followed. When we reached the outhouse, he said, "Young man, could you read it for me?" I took over the envelope. The address looked like the handwriting of his third-grade son. I tore it open and pulled out a sheet. He took over the envelope and felt inside to see if there was more. The letter itself was written by a different hand, like that of a first-grader. I read through the letter and said:
"Let's not read it."
A worried look appeared on his face. "What happened? What happened? What does the letter say? Read it for me. I beg you."
It was a rather short letter written with an unsteady hand:
Big Mount:
The kid is good. I want to sleep with you.
Kid's Mom
I finished but Big Monk Ma's eyes were still on my face. When I handed the letter back to him, he said: "That is it?"
"Yes," I said. "That's all. Your wife can write? The envelope and the letter were not written by the same hand."
"No, she can't. She never went to school."
I was young and foolish then, having not tasted the full range human feelings. So I leaked the content of Big Monk Ma's letter as if it were a joke. Many on the construction site would tease him endlessly: I want to sleep with you.
Not long after that I received a telegram that my grandpa was gravely ill. So I left Tibet. I haven't seen him once even since then.
Later I realized that Big Mount Ma's wife must have worked hard on that letter. It must have taken her a whole day, or perhaps several days, to learn one single word from her young son, and then copy the words, stroke by stroke, to complete that letter. That simple letter carried with it the deep feelings of a woman in the deep mountains for her man thousands of miles away.
Twenty years has passed since then. I hope it's not too late to say this to Big Mount Ma and his dear wife: I apologize for my youthful foolishness.